Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,58

out the note and returns my passport to me. Then handing the remaining three passports to her colleague, she unhurriedly leaves the room.

For a moment I’m weak with relief, then it occurs to me that she may simply have gone to call airport security. Perhaps she thinks I’m some deranged conspiracy theorist. Either way, I’m finished. Under my suddenly too-hot clothes I feel a sweat bead running down my spine. I try to look casual and Oxana squeezes my hand. “Relax,” she murmurs. “You look like you’re trying not to shit.”

Lapotnikova returns just as the customs officer in the big hat is handing back the last of the passports. She ignores me and returns to her seat. I want to hug her. We’re through. I’ve done everything I can, the rest is up to Tikhomirov, although whether my message will be the slightest help to him, I don’t know. I’m guessing not.

We’re driven back to Moscow in the same SUV, this time by one of our armed guards. The second guy sits in the passenger seat with his pistol in his lap, presumably in case one of us tries to filch it from its holster. I’m in the back seat, as usual, between Oxana and Charlie. The symbolism of this arrangement is not lost on Charlie, who stares pointedly out of the window for the entire journey. Oxana, kittenish at the prospect of action, creeps her fingers under my sweater and round my waist, tickling and pinching me.

“Do you know the expression ‘muffin top’?” she whispers.

As we approach central Moscow, we’re forced to negotiate street barriers, road closures and diversions. “What’s going on?” I ask the driver, as the traffic slows to a standstill.

“New Year’s Eve celebrations,” he answers, irritably negotiating a three-point turn.

“Not tonight, surely?” I’ve lost all track of the date.

“No. Day after tomorrow.”

We’re delivered back to the twelfth floor of the gray skyscraper and shown to our old rooms. I’m scared, in a generalized sort of way, but mostly I’m just very, very hungry. Whatever tomorrow holds, there’s tonight’s dinner to look forward to, followed by a night in a full-sized bed with Oxana. For now, that’s enough.

Below us, as dusk falls, Moscow lights up. The New Year decorations are in place, and the streets, cathedrals and skyscrapers are a blaze of gold and silver and sapphire. Gazing out of the window, I think how wonderful it would be to be able to explore the city with Oxana, unburdened with fear and horror and dreams of death, and lose ourselves in the dazzle and enchantment of it all.

At dinner, Richard questions us closely about Anton. Charlie does most of the talking, explaining that the general consensus was that he’d been drinking late at night, and had fallen off the platform.

“You knew him better than anyone else, Villanelle. How did he strike you?”

“He was like he always was. I never liked him that much but he was professional, and ran things properly. Everything was well organized, supplies, weaponry, all that. And then one morning he just wasn’t there.”

“Eve?”

“What can I say? I couldn’t stand the man, but like Oxana says everything ran smoothly. I just kept out of his way.”

“Lara?”

“My name’s Charlie. And yeah. What the others said. But I’m pretty sure he was drinking. I was making myself coffee one morning before breakfast, and he came in smelling of alcohol, like it was coming out of his skin. Obviously I didn’t say anything to him, but—”

“Did you tell either of the instructors?”

“They didn’t ask me. And after he disappeared I didn’t want to say negative things about him in case people blamed me. But it’s true.”

I glance at Charlie. They’re looking at me, not with hatred or jealousy, but levelly, as if to say that now we’re square, and I give them the ghost of a nod.

Richard brightens. “Who’d like some wine? It’s the Château Pétrus.”

“What, again?” Oxana says.

He smiles. “We must celebrate your return. Seasonal greetings, and all that. I believe our little North Sea getaway is quite chilly at this time of year.” He fills our glasses. “Good luck to you, ladies.”

“And to me,” says Charlie.

The next day passes with stifling slowness. We’re not permitted to leave the twelfth floor, or to do anything except pace around like zoo animals, breathing the building’s recycled air. There are no books, no newspapers, no computers or phones. Oxana and I have temporarily run out of things to say to each other, and I spend most of the